"Gee, thanks for the advice," she says before studying me for a second. "You know the pictures on the news didn't do you any justice." She giggles. "Get it? Justice? Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks for getting him killed. I've made more money in the past few months than the whole two years before. It was real swell of you."
"Go to hell."
She clucks her tongue. "Boys, guess who just volunteered to be our hostage? This woman just keeps on giving."
"Done ma'am," says one of the henchmen. He hikes his pouch over his shoulder. Larceny completed, the others return to the rappel ropes.
KitKat tilts her head to grin down at me. "Ready to go, JoJo? Get up." She grabs my arm, but I yank it away with a sneer. I can stand by myself. "Hope you're not afraid of heights."
"I'm not," a woman says above.
All eyes move up to the source. Hovering in what's left of the jagged skylight is Lady Liberty with a huge smirk, blonde hair and cape flapping from the nearby helicopter. I will never say another bad word about her again. The bad guys, including KitKat, all gape at her for a second. I don't waste the opportunity. As I was trained at the academy, with one fluid movement, I grab the barrel of her gun, step to the side, yank it toward me so hard it breaks her finger, tilt her wrist down, and commandeer the gun. She yelps in pain and surprise. Still got it.
At the same time, Liberty swoops down like a hawk toward the now frightened mice. The henchmen raise their guns as she rockets toward them. By the time I have the gun, the men open fire. All the ladies scream in panic, some ducking down, but I tune this out. I point the gun at the villain while sweeping her legs out from underneath her. In shock, she remains on the floor, staring up at me as spent slugs rain down on us. The bullets hit Liberty's force-field and cascade down like copper hail. Oblivious, the hero glides around the room punching, kicking, and generally beating the shit out of four hulking motherfuckers with guns. Two pounce at the same time but with a swift kick backwards and glittering energy blast forward, both topple like dominoes. Without missing a beat, she dispatches the last one with a roundhouse to the jaw. He crumples to the floor unconscious like the others. It's all over in about ten seconds. Girl power.
Panting from the effort and still in battle stance with fists raised, she surveys the room for more threats. She stops on me, meeting my eyes. "That all of them?"
"Guy in the helicopter," I say.
"I'll get him. Police are on the way." She glances down at KitKat. "Looks like you can handle the rest." She smiles at me. "Good job." And as fast as she came, she's gone.
A few seconds later the ropes fall and the helicopter flies away so we can hear the sirens in the distance. The other women rise, all but KitKat who glares up at me. I grin. "Bitch, you crashed the wrong fucking party."
*
I insisted on riding to the hospital with the still sobbing Bitsy. The paramedics revived her with smelling salts but advised she should go get checked for a concussion. All in all it could have been a hell of a lot worse. A few other guests were treated for minor cuts and bruises. When the ambulance was pulling away I saw a medic splinting KitKat's finger in the back of a police cruiser. That brought a small smile to my face.
The emergency room at Our Lady is quiet when we arrive, so we're brought right into an exam room. "Get Dr. Ambrose," I order the intern who begins looking my friend over. Only the best for my friend. Bitsy threw up twice in the ambulance, so I'm certain she has a concussion. Last year made me quite the expert. About ten minutes later, and a million assurances nobody will hold the robbery against her since it was her party, the good doctor with nurse in tow arrives. I'm embarrassed to admit my stomach flutters when he steps in. He glances up from Bitsy's chart, glasses perched on the end of his nose, and his mouth opens a little in surprise when he sees me. It takes a second for him to remember himself. His mouth sets into a firm, straight line. "Mrs. Armstrong?" he asks, all business.
I pat her hand. "I'll let Dr. Ambrose examine you." I stand. "I'll be just outside."
With a smile her way, I walk to the door. Jem doesn't glimpse up as I pass. My cell has been buzzing non-stop since we left, so I go to the waiting area and plop down in one of the chairs. On the TV above a reporter recaps the "hostage situation at the Restoration Society luncheon just minutes ago." I give it half an hour before my name crops up and I'm inundated with phone calls from reporters. My cousin Veronica, one of said bottom feeders though I never hold that against her, has already tried per my call history. Dobbs, Gene Tully my press guy, my old partner Cam, and Harry have all left voice messages. As I'm texting Dobbs to come get me, Thayer Armstrong, Bitsy's husband, rushes into the lounge. He spots me and hurries over. "I got your message. How is she? Is she okay?"
"Fine. They're examining her now." As if on cue, Jem strides into the waiting area with his head up for once. "Thayer Armstrong, this is Je--I mean, Dr. Ambrose. Thayer is Bitsy's husband."
"Your wife is resting at the moment. I suspect she has a concussion, but we'll need a CAT scan to confirm. She's coherent, up and talking, and that's a very good sign, but a head wound can be tricky. Should the scan show swelling, we'll want to keep her for a few days to monitor her. Regardless, she'll need to stay overnight for observation."
"Can I see her?" Thayer asks.
"Of course. She's in exam two. We'll collect her for the scan shortly."
"Thank you, doctor," Thayer says before walking away to find his wife. If I didn't know the man went through mistresses like socks, I'd almost believe he loved her.
"So, she'll be okay?" I ask.
"Yes, I believe so." He glances down at the blood on my dress. "Were you injured?"
"Oh, no, it's Bitsy's blood. I'm fine."
"And are you, I mean, you just experienced another trauma. Do you need, are you," he stammers, "would you like me to recommend--"
"I'm fine," I assure him. "No psychiatrists. I'll be fine. Just another day in Galilee Falls. It's--"
The sound of a gunshot stops my words and my breath. My whole body locks up like Ft. Knox. For an instant, the hospital vanishes. I'm stuck in a black subway tunnel running for my life as two men shoot at me. The bullets whizzing past me, my sore body pushed to the limit, and even the gravel under my bare, bleeding feet overwhelm me. A man says my name, but his touch pulls me from hell. I'm back at the hospital, shaking uncontrollably as Jem's concerned eyes study me. I can't breathe. No matter how hard I try, no air will enter. This makes me panic even more. I'm gonna die. I don't want to die. Without a word, the doctor grasps my hand and leads me past the nurse picking up the metal tray with instruments she dropped. We enter an exam room. Jem shuts the door before positioning me in a chair in the corner.
He kneels in front of me, dark blue eyes meeting my tear-filled ones. "Joanna, listen to me. Listen to my voice. Listen to my voice. You are safe. This is a safe place. You are safe. No one is going to hurt you here, I swear it to you, but you need to breathe." Jem places my hand on his chest, then covers mine with his. "Breathe. Follow my lead." His chest moves up and down as he takes a deep breath. Then again. I'm beginning to see spots now. "Stay with me, Joanna. I am right here with you. I'm not going anywhere. Breathe. You can do it, Joanna. Just breathe. Breathe," he orders through gritted teeth. I gasp as I expel the air I was holding. Tears trickle onto my cheeks. Jem smiles, making his eyes almost twinkle. He curls his fingers in mine to make a fist. "Good. Excellent. See? It's easy. You're doing brilliantly. Keep going." For about thirty seconds I match him breath for breath, my eyes never leaving his. The trembling lessens with each pant. I can even wipe the tears away. "You're doing great," he says with another smile. Those smiles calm me more than the deep breaths.
A minute later I can breathe without having to force it. I can even talk. "I'm okay," I whisper. I don't really want to but I pull my hand away from his chest. "Thank you."
"How often do you have panic attacks?"
"Whenever some psychopath points a gun at me," I chuckle as I wipe more falling tear
s away. "Um, they used to be more frequent. Loud noises, a man who resembled Alkaline, looking down from a height would trigger one, but it's been four months since the last one. My old therapist wanted to put me on meds, but I'm an alcoholic." I chuckle again, "Pills are a gateway. I'm not even supposed to have aspirin." I gaze down. "I was on Prozac years ago but it made my thinking fuzzy. God, this is so embarrassing."
"Don't be embarrassed," he says. "It happens to the best of us."
I look up again to his sympathetic smile. "You have panic attacks too?"
He nods. "Not for years now, but I did."
"Why? What happened?" His face falls a little, and I regret the question. I look away. "Sorry. Sorry. It's none of my business."
"No, it's…my fiancée was murdered. I was the one who found her." I glance up at him in shock. "And the guilt, the…unfairness of it all, swallowed me into the abyss. I know how difficult it is to come back from something like that. For a year I could barely eat, I couldn't sleep. I felt so…empty. Alone. Everyone tried to help, but…" He shrugs. "They just couldn't know what it felt like. They couldn't understand. So whatever you feel, whatever you do to cope, it's normal. Never be embarrassed about being human. Especially around me."
"When does it start getting better?"
"When you allow yourself to really feel it. To accept it."
"Accept what?"
"That…the life you had before is over. That things will never be the same. That for better or for worse, you're not the same. Where you choose to go from there is entirely up to you. You can either let the pain, the guilt, become your only friend. Your prison. Or you can let it teach you, perhaps even make you stronger in some ways." He shakes his head. "But I won't lie to you, it's always there under the surface. The darkness. It's a part of you. Forever."
Before I can stop myself, I tentatively reach across and squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry."
He squeezes back. "I'm sorry."
I meet his eyes, searching deep to confirm my suspicion. I find it. That same haunted look I always see in mine. Eyes that have gazed into that abyss and seen it staring back. He's as broken as I am. Kindred spirits. We gaze at each other for a few seconds, not blinking or even breathing. This is a rare find, and we both know it. "Jem--"
The door opens, and I yank my hand away. A nurse pokes her head in. "Mrs. Armstrong is ready to go to radiology."
Jem leaps up like a jack-in-the-box, running his hand through his unruly hair. "Good, um, yes, um, thank you." The nurse glances at me, then at him, and shuts the door. "Um, I-I-I had best get back in there. Ar-Are you alright? Would-Would you like me to page a psychiatrist or write you a scrip for Valium or, no you can't take pills. Forgot that. I-I suppose I could--"
"I'm fine now. Thank you."
He nods. "Yes. Right. Sure. Um, I-I had better…" he gestures to the door, and smiles nervously. "Ha-Have a nice day." And he walks out.
I don't move for a minute. I can't. I'm completely dazed by what just transpired. Not that I can exactly explain what just happened. I just know the last time I felt like this I was twelve and standing on Pendergast Bridge, staring at the boy who would become the most important person in my life. My body tingling from my soul out from the recognition that nothing, nothing would ever be the same for me again. And it is…brilliant. Exciting. Miraculous.
And more damn terrifying than a million guns held by a million villains pointed at me.
*
I give my statement to one of the officers accompanying the henchmen to the hospital and get the hell out of there as quick as I can. Dobbs knows me well enough to not ask a lot of questions on the drive home. I change out of my bloody dress into jeans and black shirt, grab some chips and candy from the pantry, and begin work on my new project: Dr. Jonathan Fucking Ambrose, MD, Ph.D.
I know it's kind of stalker-ish to have Doris run a database search on a guy I like, but I will refrain from driving by his building ten times a day or rooting through his trash. Maybe. I locate his full name, Jonathan Greene Ambrose, date of birth, and social security number from the hospital records and plug them in. It'll take Doris about ten minutes to collate, so I go into the living room for better reception to return calls. Harry's cell goes to voice mail, so I leave a message. Same with Cam and V. Everyone's busy. I do speak to my head of PR and review the press release about to go out. The computer is done by the time I am. Close to two hundred documents found. This is going to take awhile.
Let's see. Born just outside New Urbana. Parents deceased. I pull up a picture of them at a charity event. Ugh. Both are serious and haughty, not even smiling it for the camera. I know their type: thinks they're better than everyone. It's as if they're judging me even in this photo. Father, Christian Ambrose, was heir to the Stonehouse Pharmaceuticals fortune. He was a doctor too, a geneticist, wow one on the team that isolated the uber-gene that causes people to have superpowers. It seems genius runs in the family. There's not a lot on Christian or his wife Eloise except a marriage announcement and a few sightings at charity events. The article that catches my eye is the one about the house, or really mansion fire when Jem was sixteen. Killed both parents. The article mentions a brother, Jordan, but it's the only time. Maybe he died too. And there's no engagement announcement either. In fact there's precious little about Jem's personal life anywhere. A few mentions on the New Urbana or Independence society pages but otherwise all the files are academic or professional. He started college at age fourteen, developed the retrovirus before he graduated med school at age twenty, has a trillion awards, has lectured all over the world, was one on Independence's bachelors of the year twice, and has an IQ of 198. I fall back in my seat with a sigh. Great. I sure can pick them. Perfect. He's fucking perfect. And probably still in love with his dead fiancée.
"Hello."
Shit. I spin around to find Lady Liberty smiling and strutting toward me. I was so deep in thought I didn't hear her come in. "Why are you looking up Jonathan Ambrose?"
"I-I," I stammer, clicking out of the file, "we hired him at the hospital. Just making sure, you know it wasn't a mistake."
Her eyes narrow. "That's it?"
"Why else would I waste my time on…" I chuckle nervously. "Never mind. Did--Do you need to use the computer or--"
"No. I just wanted to check in on you. It was intense today."
"I've been in worse."
"I'm aware. Still, most people would have crumbled. You handled yourself well in there. I was impressed."
"Thank you. I'm just glad you showed up when you did."
"Thank whoever called 911." She looks me over. "Well, if you're not a basket case, I have a city to patrol. Never a dull moment here, huh?" She smirks. "I'll let you get back to your side project. Ciao." She gives me a two finger salute and begins to walk away. When she reaches the exit, she stops and turns around. "You know, I just decided something. Nightingale was right about you. You are going to be good for us. I am officially going to start liking you, Joanna Fallon." She smiles brightly. "Welcome to the family." She winks, turns on her heel, and flies away.
"O-kay," I say to myself as I turn back to the computer.
The family. The violent, dysfunctional, superhuman family. Great. Why do I suddenly feel like smashing this computer, blowing up this room, and running as far from the city as I can? I don't want this. I don't want people pointing guns at me anymore. I don't want to look at disgusting photos of human degradation. I want…
I re-open the file on Jem with a sigh. But that's my life. Was the moment my father died. Jem's right. I have to accept that. I live deep in the abyss, it's part of me, and it sure as hell is not a place I would ever afflict upon him.
I delete his file.
CHAPTER FOUR
New Friends
Running fucking sucks. I hate running. I hate sweating, I hate not being able to breathe, I hate my legs aching. It's ruined the beach for me. I'm supposed to get a rush or thrill at some point, but maybe I have no endorphins. Sure would explain a few t
hings. The only reason I'm enduring this now is I was going batshit in that house. Couldn't even wait until night to run away. I've had constant phone calls from reporters for two days now, both at home and work. Once again in the eyes of the public, I'm a hero. Bitsy even went on television claiming she'd be dead if it wasn't for my intervention. I could handle the attention, even the paparazzi at my gate, but not one little message from Jem. He phoned yesterday, befuddled as usual, to check on me. I felt as if I were back in high school, listening to the message a dozen times to find hidden meaning in every pause. I finally deleted it without calling him back, then obsessed over that decision too. Hence the running. Physical torture beats the mental kind any day of the week.
As I'm running past my usual stopping place, I hear a woman shout, "Joanna!" from above. The female lovebird waves from her perch, and I stop to wave back. Really it's to catch my breath. I can't seem to get past the mile mark without falling face first into the sand. Lexie signals me up and shouts, "Come on!" What the hell? Like my house, hers has a million steps, and I'm about dead when I reach her patio. She greets me with a bottle of water and a smile fit for a supermodel. "Thought you might be thirsty."
I gulp down the water. "Thanks."
"Come on in, hero. Meet the husband."
Their home is a post-modern masterpiece, all angles, white walls, and glass. It's a lot less depressing than mine. Maybe I should knock out my roof and add skylights. I won't though. Even after almost a year there, the mansion doesn't feel like mine. I couldn't even re-do Justin's bedroom and I sleep there every night. Hell, I still think of it as Justin's bedroom.
A man, I presume the husband, lounges on a huge black leather couch immersed in Sports Central re-caps. He's an attractive man if you like bohunks. His red hair is longish, down to his shoulders, and wavy with muscles bulging through his white t-shirt and blue jeans. I can see why the Angels shelled out millions for him. "Babe, we have company," Lexie says.
Galilee Rising (The Galilee Falls Trilogy) Page 5
